Red - Black - Blue
by alanabloom
Summary: Series of three interconnected mini-fics fulfilling the prompt "Will/Alana Formal Wear".
1. Red

**Red**

_Annual FBI Ball - 2011_

Will pretends he didn't come to see her, that she isn't the reason he had rummaged around his closet for an ill fitting suit and walked headlong into the FBI social event of the year...the event he's happily skipped for the past three years of teaching at the Academy.

He also pretends that he isn't searching the room for her from the second he arrives, but he's on edge for the first fifteen minutes. That's how long it takes Will to spot her; a flash of red out of the corner of his eye, and he turns out of pure instinct to see Alana walking in the opposite direction, her back to him, the red dress a stark contrast to the dark waves of her hair.

Heads turn when she passes. Men begin to drift toward her, all of them waiting for their chance at greetings and small talk. Will stares openly as it happens; Alana can barely finish one conversation before someone else has come up to clasp her hand, kiss her cheek.

Will's stomach sinks. He feels like a disappointed teenager, a deluded, idealistic _boy_ who had thought formal wear and music and booze meant a single night could change things.

Alana Bloom is his friend, and he is grateful for that. It is a new friendship, still tentative and fragile, built slowly and meticulously over the past few months.

But she avoids being alone in a room with him; it's been too consistent for Will to delude himself that it isn't deliberate. And now, stupidly, he has dragged himself to a room even more crowded with other people, with some vague notion that something might change.

So he watches from a distance. She is staggeringly beautiful, and likely smarter than every other person here. Respected and liked and admired, universally so.

Will reminds himself she could have anyone she wants. There is no reason why that _anyone_ would be him.

But suddenly she looks up and spots him. It happens too fast for Will to pretend he wasn't watching her, but it doesn't seem to matter. Alana's eyes light up, her smile brightening a few notches.

Will can't deny it feels good, how quickly she wraps up her current conversation and excuses herself. People have been gravitating toward her all night, but now _she_ makes her way to _him_.

"Will!" She grins at him, looking surprised, pleasantly so. Probably correctly assumed this wasn't his sort of event.

Up close, he gets a better look at her. Alana's red lipstick matches the dress, and not for the first time at the sight of her, Will thinks the word _kissable_.

He settles for the cheek, mimicking the crisp greeting she's been getting all night.

"You look um..." The word he's thinking is _beautiful_, but his words are already stumbling. "Great." Not enough. "Really great."

"So do you," Alana says easily, eyes sparkling. A beat passes, both of them grinning inanely at each other, and then Alana tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow. "C'mon, let's drink."

She's still sought after, for the rest of the night. She introduces Will to everyone who approaches, and each time he sees the discomforting flash of recognition, followed by interest, on their expression.

But Alana sees it, too, and she never gives them a chance to voice their curiosity, immediately asking them questions, keeping the chat idle. Will knows she's doing it deliberately, and he wonders, not for the first time, what makes her so very different from the rest of them.

Sometimes he drifts away, forcing himself to be social so as not to look like a dependent puppy hovering around her all night. But Alana always finds her way back to him.

Throughout the evening, Will pours wine down his throat like it's fuel for his courage. When things seem to be winding down, and he can no longer afford to wait any longer, Will goes up behind her and holds out his hand.

_Would you care to dance?_ sounds like a smarmy leading man in some corny old movie, but _Wanna dance_? is the phrase of the awkward teenager. The sentences collide and tangle in his throat, but he manages to extract a single word, the important one. "Dance?"

There is half a second where her smile flickers, something like fear chasing it across her face, but it's back in place quickly, and she happily takes his outstretched hand and follows him to the edge of the dance floor.

Will slips his fingers between hers and wraps his other arm securely around her waist, and Alana knows this could be dangerous. But she is warm and pleasantly buzzed and it feels good being this close to him.

The music is slow, and the world seems to be slowing down with it. Alana moves a little closer, wrapping her arm around his shoulder. Will is steady, a solid clutch for balance.

Alana finds herself wondering about his empathy. Not out of professional curiosity - it's been awhile since the word _professional_ could be attributed to any of her feelings toward Will - but because she wonders if he can see inside her head, glimpse her brain's internal war between logic and wanting.

It's maybe the first time they've been silent together, with no reason to fill the spaces with words. She has taken care never to be alone in a room with him, and Alana isn't sure exactly when that became less about stifling her professional curiosity and more about self-preservation.

If Alana was alone with Will, he might realize what she's feeling. If she was alone with him, she might shut off her brain just long enough to give into those feelings.

They aren't alone now, of course, but somehow the crowd of agents and teachers and consultants feels far away.

_Incompatible_, Alana reminds herself silently, but it's hard to remember at the moment, considering how perfectly they fit together, how their bodies feel perfectly in tune as they sway slowly to the music.

Will's mouth is positioned next to her ear, and the alcohol helps his words slip out. "What I meant earlier is _beautiful_. I mean, that you look beautiful, tonight."

For a second, Alana hides a smile against the shoulder of his suit jacket, then leans back to look at Will. He gives her a small, shy smile, like a question.

Their eyes meet, briefly. There's a whole world of possibility in that moment, a whole life they could live.

For once it's Alana who averts her gaze, certain her heart is in her eyes, that they will offer him a window into her head, and once he sees what's inside she will not be able to stop herself.

The song has changed, and someone clamps a hand onto Will's shoulder. He turns to see one of the FBI agents, a tall, broad shouldered man, a man who didn't fail the psych eval, looking past Will to smile at Alana. "Mind if I cut in?"

Alana frowns slightly, feeling the rudeness, but before she can say anything, Will gives her a little nod and replies, "All yours," before turning abruptly to go.

He moves through the crowd without looking back, having abruptly remembered himself, who he is and who she is and all the reasons she is out of his reach. Solitude - _loneliness_ - is written into his bones, and he's learned to live with it.

Alana Bloom is his friend. And Will knows enough to recognize that he's lucky just to have that.


	2. Black

**Black**

_Annual FBI Ball - 2013_

It takes Alana all of five minutes to regret coming.

Beverly gets dragged off with Price and Zeller to talk to someone, so Alana hovers on her own near the open bar, not caring what drinks they put in her hand, glaring at her surroundings.

The whole thing seems gaudy and obscene, this year. They are drinking and dancing and socializing...and Will's sitting in a jail cell. She can't hold the two things in her mind, as if a party can't possibly exist in the same reality as his prison.

The more she drinks, the worse it seems. There is a rage twisting in Alana's chest, all sharp edges and spiky tendrils, and it makes her want to scream, to slam her glass against a wall and cause a scene.

She wants to destroy everyone around her for the crime of being too happy, too oblivious, too untouched by the thing that is tearing her apart.

The one blessing is that most people take one look at her, all fury and defenses in her black dress and red lipstick, and keep their distance.

The whole bureau knows about Will's arrest and upcoming trial. Everyone knows she's testifying for the defense. And everyone knows the prosecutor recently tried - and failed - to get her disqualified as an expert witness status because of Jack Crawford's information about romantic overtures.

So all things considered, no one's surprised to spot her camped out near the booze. And no one is eager to approach her.

Well, almost no one.

"Alana."

She stiffens at the sound of his voice, and glances up to see Jack standing beside her, his face set in a conciliatory expression.

Alana narrows her eyes, and in as measured a voice as she can manage, says, "I've been standing here drinking all night, Jack, so now probably isn't a good time for _you_ to come near me."

Heaving a weary sigh, Jacks asks sadly, "Is this really how it has to be?"

"You tell me," she snaps. "You're all working so hard to get Will convicted, even Beverly's subpoenaed by the prosecution. And I am the _only_ one who gets to help him." She's dimly aware of how she sounds, loud and emotional, and Alana deliberately lowers her voice to a hiss, "I'm the _only_ one who gets to be on his side, who gets to fight for him, and you tried to take that away."

"It was relevant information, Alana. I had to disclose it to the lawyer."

"Oh, stop it," she scoffs. "Everyone knows your game, Jack. You want Will to be a serial killer, because then it's not your fault, you can pretend you didn't do this to him-"

For the first time, Jack's expression betrays his own anger. "Are you really so naive that you can't even _consider_ the slight possibility that Will did this to himself? That you might be wrong about him, that the encephalitis was a coincidence? That just _maybe_ the reason he can think like a serial killer is because he is-"

Alana's palm slams against Jack's cheek before he can finish the sentence. Everyone in their immediate vicinity has gone quiet, and Alana's voice is low and venomous when she snarls, "_Fuck_ you, Jack." before turning to go.

Heads turn and stare as Alana stumbles across the dance floor and toward the exit.

She's in no state to drive, so Alana simply sits down the sidewalk, legs crossed in front of her, leaning against the brick building, to wait for Beverly.

She feels dizzy and shaky with anger, overwhelmed by it, and she's too drunk to properly calm herself down. So Alana just sits, trying to soak up the silence and stop thinking.

After about a half hour, Beverly finds her there. She looks down at Alana and arches an eyebrow. "Feels kinda like prom, huh?_ I_ got my ass groped twice on the way to the bathroom. _You_ got in a fight over a guy you like, and everyone's still talking about it." She pulls her left hand from behind her back, revealing a full bottle of wine. "And course, stolen booze."

She sits down next to Alana and takes a generous swig from the bottle before passing it over.

"Aren't you my ride?" Alana asks dully, tipping the bottle back.

"Nah, I'm leaving my car here. Jimmy's wife isn't letting him drink, we're making him take all of us home."

Alana doesn't answer, and after a moment Beverly glances at her and asks gently, "You okay?"

There's an ache in her chest, and it takes Alana another sip of the wine to answer, "It just doesn't feel right. Being here, when Will's..." Her voice catches.

"Yeah," Beverly bumps her shoulder against Alana's lightly, saying sarcastically, "It's not right that you're having _so_ much fun without him." Alana glances at her, and Bev half-smiles. "Come on. It's okay. Will probably never even came to these things."

"No," Alana counters, her voice slurring a little. "No, he did. He came once." Her eyes sting with a sudden wash of tears as she thinks about their slow dance two years ago, regret swelling in her throat.

What if she hadn't hesitated? What if she'd screwed logic and kissed him, right then, instead of when he was fully entangled in the minds of serial killers and his encephalitis? If they had gotten together two year ago?

Would things have been different? Would she have spotted the illness sooner? Maybe even convinced him not to go back to the field in the first place?

"Hey, whoa, hey..." Beverly's hand lands awkwardly on Alana's shoulder, and that's when she realizes she's crying, the horrible, alcohol fueled sort of crying that comes out of nowhere.

"Sorry..." She draws a shuddering breath and sweeps the pads of her fingers under her eyes. They come back smudged black. "Sorry. I'm just drunk."

"You're entitled to be drunk," Beverly says, passing her the half empty bottle of wine to emphasize that point.

They're quiet for awhile, and then Beverly adds, "Jack's wrong about Will." Alana looks at her, surprised. "I wasn't kidding when I said everyone was talking about it."

"Great," Alana mutters.

"He _is_ wrong," Beverly continues. "And I know you know that. But just remember...you already won the first battle. You get to testify for Will, he couldn't stop you." She pulls the wine bottle from Alana's hands and waits until she looks up. "You're gonna get your chance to save him."


	3. Blue

**Blue**

_Annual FBI Ball - 2015_

"We don't have to stay long," her voice floats through the doorway. "I know it's not really your thing."

Before Will can answer Alana steps through the doorway, dressed in a short, curve hugging dress in a deep sapphire that makes her eyes glow like lanterns.

For a moment, Will's lungs shrink, all his breath rushing out in a single syllable: "_Wow_." He stands up from the foot of the bed and walks toward her, smile unfurling. "I think it just became my thing."

She grins and lifts herself up on her toes to kiss him, Will's hands going instinctually to her hips. The dress is tight, and he can feel her bones; she feels fragile under his hands. It's misleading, as though she's the one who needs looking after.

But Alana is the strongest person he knows, the one who saved him time and time again. She is his savior, his constant, his champion.

And his fiancee, whom he can now easily tell, "You look beautiful."

"You're looking pretty good yourself," she says softly, kissing him again.

When he pulls away, Will murmurs only half-jokingly, "Maybe we should just stay here."

Immediately, she frowns, concerned. "Are you nervous?"

It's been nearly five months since he got out of the hospital, but his immediate retirement means he hasn't seen most of his former colleagues since before Hannibal's attack and arrest.

"No," he says quietly. "Not nervous." His thumb traces the curve of her cheekbone, eyes softening and meeting hers. "Not with you there."

Her eyes gleam as she smiles, throat suddenly tightening with all the love she wouldn't give up for anything, in spite of all the scars and wounds that brought them here.

For a moment, they look at each other. There's a whole world of possibility in that moment, a whole life they still get to live.

Then, Alana snakes her arms around his neck and kisses him, slow and lazy. Like they have all the time in the world.

Eventually, she pulls away and tells him seriously, "I mean it, though. We don't have to stay long."

"We can stay as long as you want," Will assures her. He takes her left hand, feeling the edge of the diamond glittering there. "And this time, if anyone tries cutting in on the dance floor...I get to tell them no."


End file.
